Thanksgiving

I am surprised sometimesby the suddenness of November:beauty abruptly shedto a common nakedness–grasses deadenedby hoarfrost,persistent memoriesof people I’ve lost.

It is left to those of us dressed in the hard barky skin of experienceto insist on a decorumthat rises to the greatnessof a true Thanksgiving.

This is not a game,against a badly scheduled team,an uneven match on an uneven pitch.

This is lifeThis is lifeThis is life

Not politely mumbled phrases,murmured with a practiced and meticulous earnestness.

Thanksgiving was born a breech-birth,a screaming appreciation for being alive–for not being one of the manywho didn’t make it–who couldn’t moil throughanother hardscrabble yearon tubers and scarce fowl.

Thanksgiving is for being you.There are no thanks without you.

You are the power of hopeful promise;you are the balky soil turning upon itself;you are bursting forth in your experience.

You are not the person next to you–not an image or an expectation.You are the infinite and eternal you–blessed, and loved, and consoledby the utter commonnessand community of our souls.

We cry and we’re held.We love and we hold.

We are the harvest of God,constantly renewed,constantly awakened,to a new thanksgiving.